


The Scent of You is Bliss

by orphan_account



Series: A-Z of Kink: House [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Aftercare, Blindfolds, Body Writing, Chronic Pain, Developing Relationship, Dominant!Chase, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sub!House, Wax Play, stretching medical evidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OVER 18 ONLY. DO NOT INTERACT IF UNDER 18.A-Z of Kink: G is for Grapherotica (Bodywriting)Summary: When House's pain becomes unbearable, he calls Chase for a special type of analgesia.Series discontinued.
Relationships: Robert Chase/Greg House
Series: A-Z of Kink: House [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620808
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	The Scent of You is Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Please don't try wax play at home if you don't know what the fuck you're doing. Do your research. Thoroughly.
> 
> Further disclaimer: House's misguided thoughts about BDSM in the beginning of the story are his, not mine.
> 
> Title plagiarised from The Hunger by the Distillers.

When House's leg screams and throws fits for days at a time, he can't settle. He perches on the edge of his couch as if he's a stranger in his own apartment, confused about where to put himself. 

Over the past week, he's tried everything. A few shots of Maker's Mark, slammed back in one go. A triple dose of overprescribed Vicodin (thank god for enabling best friends). Fighting with Cuddy, bullying Cameron, trying to humiliate Foreman. He's often unsuccessful with the last one, which galls him. None of these usual techniques have been particularly effective lately.

Looks like it's time to call Chase.

Thank god for that case with the strange kid who liked being choked. If it hadn't been for him, and his hot dominatrix friend, House would never have discovered Chase's inclinations at all. The day Chase confessed he had an ex who liked being burnt was the day he became a victim of House's curiosity. He'd cornered him in the conference room after work, and had listened in wonder as he realised how wrong he was about his pet ass kisser. With his puppy dog loyalty and missing backbone, he'd entirely expected Chase to tell him he was a sub. Chase had, rubbing his wrists and avoiding House's eyes, confirmed that he was the total opposite.

In turn, Chase had laughed when House admitted his preferences. House thought the kid was going to faint when it sunk in that he was completely serious.

Intrigue would be the death of them both. Of course, they couldn't just leave it there. It made too much sense not to do anything about it.

House wasted no time in laying out his disclaimer, explaining to Chase that he was only up for doing this with him because the endorphins helped his pain - _"So don't get attached, wombat."_ Chase quickly jumped on board with an insistence that it was only ethical for him to help - _"Don't flatter yourself. I'm just happy to have a willing victim."_

Chase had come home with him that same night. If anyone noticed the next day that House's limp was much more pronounced, they didn't say anything. But it wasn't - gloriously - because of the pain. His leg hadn't been silenced by the lasting endorphins, but it had been ordered to keep it the fuck down. The world looked a little brighter. For a day or two, House was so placid and amenable that Cuddy got suspicious and wanted to run a drug screen. He was feeling generous - and smug - enough to oblige her. When everything came back negative, she stared at him with such a baffled look on her face that House began to laugh. It didn't help his case.

_See? _He wanted to tell Wilson, _There are always options to deal with this.__ I don't need those stupid pain management programmes you're always trying to shove down my throat._

The thing is with endorphins, and their afterglow - they wear off. 

God, he doesn't want to call Chase again. It's the fourth time this month. This is getting dangerous. But impulse control has never been House's strong point.

Once the idea has fully settled, he's dialling Chase's cellphone number with an urgent, guilty desperation.

_I don't need physio, Wilson. And I'm not interested in those stupid experimental drugs. Unless they're illicit, of course..._

“House?”

"Hey." He watches his fingers tap out a jerky rhythm against the top of his cane. “You around?”

“I can be. What do you need?” Chase sounds like he's attending to a patient. Which he kind of is.

"I don't know." House pauses. He does know, but he has no idea how to ask for it. “Something... not too crazy. Something nice.”

“Really?” He can picture Chase's face, that earnest flick of his brows when he's concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't I be?”

There's a pause, and House can hear the mental gymnastics; hear Chase debating whether or not to push it.

“Fine. Give me half an hour,” he says, eventually. “I'll let myself in. I want you naked and blindfolded on your bed by the time I arrive.”

With a reflex unusually sharp, House covers the mouthpiece so that Chase can't hear the whimper he fails to stifle. _Fuck. _

He clears his throat. "I will be."

“Oh, and House? You might want to put an old sheet down. See you soon."

Chase hangs up without giving House a chance to respond, something he would never do in any other setting. The action in itself shallows House's breathing; makes his hand tremble a little with anticipation as he puts his phone down. His thoughts are already rolling into one another, clumsy, slower. Less initmidating. The torch, the one he has no business trading with his employee, has been passed. He's not in control anymore.

His body seems to know. His forearm quivers as he hoists himself upright with his cane, and it's a struggle, and he still has to run through the techniques he's learned over the years to hold the scream of agony inside. But as he eases himself towards the bedroom, it's noticeably a little more bearable.

Just a little.

**

Wilson can tell how bad things are getting. Wilson has been nothing but a pain in the ass all day. He jumped down his throat like a disgruntled parent when House popped his fifth Vicodin before noon. Later in the afternoon, he not so subtly left a leaflet for a pain rehab clinic in New York on House's desk, which was promptly tossed into the trash. Chase is slightly more removed; he's not quite close enough to have developed knowledge of the signs, the tells of a really bad flare-up. And even if he learns, he'll never have Wilson's gall. Wilson's persistence.

Chase also doesn't appreciate what Wilson can smell from a mile off: House is scared today. He's been having more bad days, more incidences of his leg almost giving way under him. More moments of realising, with panic, that he took his pills an hour ago and they're not even starting to take the edge off. The future has never felt so threatening. What House needs tonight, as much as he loathes himself for it, is comfort.

But Chase doesn't know that, and he doesn't need to.

_That's why I'm going to Chase, Wilson. And that's exactly what I'll tell you if you ever find out about this._

With some difficulty, House grips the back of his thigh and hoists himself up onto his bed. He grants himself a grunt of pain, a small indulgence; the type he'll only allow when nobody else is watching. He reflects, as he lays down on the old sheet he's covered his mattress with, that maybe that's part of what he gets out of this whole affair with Chase: there's no taboo in being vocal. In fact, he's rewarded for it. When he whimpers pleas for mercy as the flattened palm of Chase's hand strikes his bare ass again and again, he gets to feel Chase rubbing his clothed erection against the exposed flesh. If Chase wants him bound, usually so he can tease him with that smug little smirk on his face, House will growl and grumble and struggle until Chase gets annoyed and tightens his restraints, and the heightened helplessness will drift him deeper into bliss. Then, when Chase takes him... well, House doesn't even try to censor himself. He slurs curses, he moans shamelessly, and Chase's gaze will soften with something like wonder. Like he can't believe he's the cause of House's abandon.

House can't quite believe it either. Can't - won't - believe that a longing prickles inside him whenever Chase starts to get dressed to leave. When Chase holds him in the dazed, sweaty aftermath of their sex, he tells himself that his hunch that Chase doesn't want to let go is just a rare lapse in his intuition. When his masturbatory fantasies stray into the territory of Chase kissing his neck and stroking his face as he makes love to him, he decides that it's merely the biological response to thoughts of being screwed that make his dick iron hard, rather than any genuine craving for such nonsense.

Besides, it would be stupid to have feelings for Chase. House mustn't think of him as anything other than a different coloured pill, a richer type of bourbon. This, he tells himself, as he folds his winter scarf and raises it to his eyes, must never be more than it is. Their status as colleagues would make it messy. Their shared intolerance of intimacy would get them hurt.

And boy, would Wilson get right up his ass about the whole thing.

House waits, vigilant of his vulnerability; his nakedness, his inability to see. His skin prickles, his mind wanders; his leg fucking _hurts, _although the pain is dampened slightly with the excitement, the anticipation, of what might be coming. He waits, and when he hears Chase's spare key in the front door, his pulse starts to quicken. He hears him pottering around in the hallway, kicking off his shoes at the door, even though House has told him a thousand times that he doesn't need to do that. He bites back a fond smile.

Footsteps near; the sound of Chase entering his bedroom is heightened, his presence more pronounced, when he can't be seen. House swallows; he can feel himself getting hard, and he has to fight the urge to wrap his arms around himself. “That's perfect,” Chase says quietly, over the sound of his backpack hitting the floor.

House shudders as his mind strays to thoughts of what might be in that bag. The mattress dips beside him, and as Chase settles next to him, he can feel the heat of his body. Gentle fingers skim his chest, and the breath he exhales is loud. He hadn't realised he'd been holding it in.

“Perfect,” Chase repeats. “Well done for following my instructions. I'm proud of you.”

Although it jars him a little, the praise sends something warm coursing through him; a strange kind of solace. He doesn't know if he's supposed to respond, so he stays silent. Savours Chase's touch, unable to hold back a soft whimper as his fingers skate down to his stomach.

“How bad is the pain?” Chase asks, commencing his usual series of checks before they begin.

“About a 6,” House lies. It's closer to an 8, but something stops him from telling Chase that.

Chase gives a wordless murmur, something like sympathy. House winces, but chooses to overlook it. “You comfortable?” he asks.

House shrugs. “As I'm gonna be.”

“Sure.” As if wary of pushing the subject, Chase's fingers skate lower still, until they're grazing the fine hairs just above his cock. His breath hitches, amidst the confusion; Chase never usually even goes close to that area until he feels House has earned it. “Safeword?”

“Cuddy,” House responds, without a beat.

"Cuddy," Chase repeats. “Odd choice, but sure, if you want. Anything you don't want tonight?”

House thinks a moment. Final chance to back out.

Fuck it.

“Like I said. Something nice.” He's suddenly glad he can't see Chase's face. “No pain. No humiliation.”

His touch halts. “None at all? Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine,” he snaps, with a little more force than he intended. “Are you secretly Wilson putting on an accent? Is that why I'm blindfolded?”

Chase is silent for long enough for House to notice. Then, “is that any way to speak to me?”

House hides a grin. Things are so simple with Chase. So easy to get him back on topic.

“No, it's not,” he murmurs. “I won't do it again.”

“Good." A soft kiss to his forehead. "No more talking now. I want you to be nice and quiet for me.”

He's never requested that. Before House has a chance to think too much of it, Chase resumes his touches, his teasing fingers making a path past House's groin and down to his legs. He sighs; it feels good. So good, to be caressed like this.

The mattress groans as Chase hoists himself fully up onto the bed, shifting to straddle him; the sensation of clothed thighs brushing bare calves sends a tingle through him. He feels hands coming down on his hips, Chase's grip firm but painless. Every sound, every light touch, is amplified without his sight; and as Chase sighs longingly, House can't help but wriggle a little beneath him, impatient for touch.

“Keep still,” Chase whispers. “I just want you to feel, okay? That's why you're blindfolded. No distractions.”

House has barely managed a nod of response before he feels the brush of lips, astray hair, over his abdomen. The kisses that follow are wet, methodical, restrained; the only giveaway of Chase's desire is his shallow breaths, the increasing pressure of his mouth, as it lingers over House's sternum. He's tender, and he's careful. It's the kind of foreplay that would usually put House to sleep. Tonight, though, it's arousing; soothing, to hear himself moan softly as Chase's tongue trails a warm circle around his nipple; comforting, to feel it harden against Chase's mouth. He writhes his hips as Chase's lips close around the solid nub and he starts to suck. Fingernails scratch lightly, ever so lightly, against his flank, and it almost tickles. Almost makes him lose his restraint, grab for Chase's head so that he can run his fingers through that blonde hair, angel soft. But one: as a rule, he's not allowed to touch him. Two: he can't risk affection. Mustn't.

The wet sound of Chase's tongue lapping his nipple ceases. “You look wonderful,” he murmurs, into House's chest. “So sexy, all laid out for me like this.” Another soft kiss. “All mine tonight, aren't you?”

_What the fuck?_

Before he can reflect too much on the fact that he's not so unsettled by Chase's words themselves than his need to hear more of them, Chase has slid down his body with the speed of an athlete; he can feel the tickle of hair against his groin, breath misting around his balls. He groans, fingertips digging into the sheet beneath him.

“What a delicious looking cock.” Chase sighs, almost dreamily.

_Surely he's not going to..._ _ohfuckohfuck he is. _

House feels his head tilt back on the pillow, tightening his blindfold, as the heat of Chase's mouth closes around the head of his dick. His mouth opens, a hand clawing helplessly at his own chest. Chase has _never_ done this for him before. In fact, no one has done this for him for a long time. Too, too fucking long.

God, he wishes he could see Chase's face. Wishes he could watch his cheeks hollow as he takes him in further; drink in the satisfied expression on his face as House keens for him, urging him on. He pictures Chase's eyes glazed in lust, his pupils blown with hunger, as his tongue darts out, caressing his length from balls to head and then back again... and again... then, without warning, he devours his length whole.

House stutters a moan. The day is beginning to fade. The throbbing, the little annoyances... Wilson nagging like a repressed 1940s housewife...

_Fuck off, Wilson. I really don't wanna think about you while I'm getting my dick sucked..._

… _oh fuck how did he get so good at this..._

Chase moans around his cock, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure crashing through him.

“Oh, god,” he can't help but mumble, turning his head to the side to muffle himself against the pillow. Chase has told him not to talk, so he mustn't, but fuck, he wants to urge him on. Wants to curse, praise, plead for more. Wants to marvel aloud at his realisation that Chase doesn't even splutter, even as House feels his throat. How much practise must that have taken? Chase darts his tongue across his slit, and House hears himself almost wail. Fuck, this not talking thing isn't going to work... Chase is going to have to gag him...

Then everything stops, and his cock is aching, moist against the cold air. He tries to hold in his whine of disappointment, but it's fruitless. He fights with every grain of strength in his body not to buck into the air in a silent demand for more.

Chase hums, an oddly sympathetic sound. He hears the shift again, the sound of Chase's feet hitting the floor; his cock begins to stir with anticipation rather than deprivation. He can't help but lean into the touch as Chase ruffles his hair; to smile.

“Patience,” he says softly. “You'll get more later. Just relax.”

House nods, surprised at his lack of reluctance to accept this. Rather than jarring him, it soothes him; Chase never speaks to him so tenderly, never brushes his hand against his face before treating him to a soft, tongueless kiss that has House fighting not to reach up and stroke his throat. He feels giddy, high. His pain is fading away, already background noise. It's just, he tells himself, biology; his nucleus accumbens snorting dopamine. Any subsequent rush of oxytocin is just a response to being touched and kissed.

That little hormone is given way too much power. It doesn't have to _mean_ anything. Then again, if it didn't, maybe he wouldn't feel such a sense of loss when Chase breaks the kiss.

House hears footsteps again, a rustle; the sound of Chase unzipping his backpack. He can feel the thud of items being laid out on the bed beside him. If Chase isn't going to hurt him, he has no idea what they could be. But he remains quiet, obedient. He waits, in his dark, unpredictable little world.

He doesn't think he's ever felt quite so submissive.

The cap is unscrewed from a bottle, the teltale click loud in House's ears; the sound of liquid sloshing, hitting skin. House bites his lip. Surely Chase isn't going to fuck him yet? Surely...

Then House feels Chase's hands come down on his chest, smearing something wet and thick (and definitely scented – is that... lavender?) over his chest. Right, it's official - he has no fucking idea what Chase is up to. Is this his idea of oiling him up? How much porn has the kid been watching?

As sparks of pleasure begin to spread through him, House's mind stops its questions. He hums quietly as Chase's soft, skilled hands continue to spread the liquid substance across his torso, slow, sensual. He takes his time. He lingers over House's nipples, teasing and smearing with his fingertips, until House's laboured breaths end in quiet moans. He shudders, arching his hips, as Chase squeezes the bottle above his abdomen, pouring the contents over his belly. It's a little cold, a little soothing; a little maddening, as Chase spreads it in all directions, until he feels sticky and coated with it. He keens, he whines; he holds in a plea as Chase moves towards his groin, then huffs involuntarily when he passes by.

Chase laughs softly. There's nothing mocking to it, nothing sadistic. “I love all the little noises you make for me,” he whispers, as his touch moves to his good thigh. He plants a little kiss there, in the crook just below his hip, before running the liquid down the soft flesh. “You're doing great. So perfect.”

House feels himself flush with pride, and he hopes Chase doesn't notice.

When he hears Chase close the bottle, feels those glorious hands leave his body, he mourns momentarily for the touch; until his ears prick to catch the sound of other items being picked up. There's a click, a hiss; he recognises it. A lighter.

His tension at he sound must be obvious, because Chase's now slick hand ruffles his hair again. God, why does that feel so _good._ “Ssh,” he murmurs. “Relax. Remember those candles you liked the look of?"

Ah. That explains the old sheet. And why he's covered in what he now realises is probably lotion. He appreciates Chase's precautions. Doesn't fancy getting a free chest wax with his scene, thank you very much. Reassured, House nods his agreement, and his head suddenly feels very quiet. When Chase gently pulls at his wrist, raising his arm, House obediently moves the other one too until they're both resting above his head.

“Good boy,” Chase purrs. “Keep nice and still for me, okay?”

Chase has never called him that before. It should feel strange, obscene, to be called a _boy_ by someone so much younger than him. But that sting of pride is making itself known again, the praise, the knowledge that he's pleased Chase, and he's helpless to it. Feels so fucking good. 

Admittedly he hadn't taken Chase all that seriously in the beginning; he thought he'd manage to get away with fucking around, with defying him, goading until he earned another delicious spanking. But with Chase, anything less than total obedience means punishment and misery. That threat doesn't seem to exist tonight, and House is a little disturbed at his lack of desire to go at the boundaries with a baseball bat because of it. Still, the heart wants what the heart wants...

Cock. _I meant cock. The cock wants what the cock wants. And the cock is loving this._

Just as his thoughts are seizing the opportunity to pluck him out of the present for more ruminating and justifying, something hot grazes his chest. The initial sensation makes him gasp, as the wax pools; the burn, painless, soothing, prickles and pulsates across his skin. The sensation lasts for mere seconds before fading to exquisite warmth that makes him moan in bliss.

“You like it?” Chase asks. “More?”

“Pl-please,” he manages, delirious as more droplets paint a ring around the first. His lack of sight makes the visual mysterious, untouchable; he can map out the pattern, but only guess at the colour. The sound, that gentle tapping spatter of the wax touching his chest, is strangely erotic. He's vaguely aware of pauses in between, of Chase's soft gusts of breath to extinguish the flame of one candle before lighting another.

He's so distracted by the tender, burning paths across his chest that it takes him a moment to acknowledge the pressure in his against his palm, the warmth between his fingers. His brain catches up a few moments later: Chase is holding his hand.

_Fuck._

“You're beautiful, Gr- House,” he sighs, as he spills a chain of heat across his stomach. “So beautiful, and so good for me.”

Before House can start picking apart the realisation that Chase just almost used his first name, the wax is dripping just above his groin, the area so sensitive that he writhes and moans in ecstasy. His nerves are alight, his pulse screaming. It's akin to a gentle fuck, a shower with the temperature just so, a spanking that warms his ass without causing him agony. House squeezes Chase's hand as he moves down towards his good leg, trembling a little; a soft murmur of “trust me” from beside him is all it takes to get him to relax. All it takes to allow him to accept, absorb that sensation, so new to him and so exhilarating.

Chase moves up and down his body, dripping patterns across him; circles, zig-zags, every drop drifting him deeper into tranquillity. He could fall asleep. His leg grizzles, grumbles, but it's much quieter. His mind, too, is silent.

He hears another pinch of breath above him, Chase blowing another candle out; he lies still, blissed out, tingling, as he feels the break in contact of their hands. He's aware of his cock twitching, but it's patient for touch. His arousal is secondary to the peace. It's not something House is used to experiencing, in fact, ever experiences outside of these encounters; but this, is somehow deeper than usual. He can feel Chase right beside him. Metaphorically as well as literally. It's connective. Calm.

Then, his ears are alerted to new sounds; another pop, another cap. Not a bottle this time. He frowns; waits, as he feels Chase's fingertips brushing his bicep. “Ready for something different?”

Even such a light touch has his stimulated body arching for more, desperate to feel, greedy for the sensations. He nods. Chase murmurs his approval before pressing whatever he's holding to the inside of his forearm, still lain above his head. It feels wet; small. As Chase starts weaving little patterns into his skin with the object, his foggy brain catches up: it's a marker pen. Chase is... _writing_ on him.

Chase's breath is escalating, hot, close to his ear as he leans across his body and holds the wrist of his other arm firm against the mattress. “Can you tell what I'm writing?” he asks, as he starts tracing the pen against House's sensitised flesh. “What does this say?”

House, with his reduced faculties, struggles to concentrate. He makes out an E, a T, maybe, he thinks. “I... I don't know,” he whispers, revelling in the sensation, the gentle patterns Chase makes. Nerves rise within him; he asked for nice, and so far Chase has given him nothing but that. But he can't see, and Chase could be writing anything, and the scarf is so tight over his eyes that he can't even peek. House has to hand it to himself: he can follow a fucking command when he wants to.

He's hurtled out of his thoughts when Chase covers his lips with his own, grunting as he kisses him so softly that House might melt, if he were anything close to the type. Oh, fuck it – he melts. Chase sighs against him, the pen still in his hand dabbing ink on his cheek as he holds his face. House doesn't care, as he opens his mouth, seeking Chase's tongue; when he finds it, Chase is gentle, so gentle, so slow, so sensuous. It's a kiss that's not built to assert control, not designed to arouse. He doesn't release his teeth, doesn't sink them into House's lip until he jerks in pain. The words Chase has written on his arms are drying out, unknown to him, and House lets himself be kissed and stroked and murmured to, picturing Chase's face. Picturing his cloudy eyes, his pretty, parted lips.

God, he can't wait for this blindfold to come off. After what could be seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, Chase finally pulls away with an air of reluctance; House whimpers at the loss of contact, jerks a little beneath him.

“Ssh.” Chase presses a final kiss to his jaw before trailing the end of his marker down House's chest, ready to continue his penmanship. “I'll kiss you again in a minute, okay? Just be patient.”

House shudders; he's really starting to like that, he soothing, the reassurance. It's weird, but what the fuck about this isn't?

Chase writes all over him; in the little gaps on his skin between the dried out wax, filling in every empty spot on his abdomen and chest as if he can't bear to leave any part uncovered. He moves lower, the gentle strokes of the tip of his pen making House gasp and writhe beneath him; accelerating his breaths as he hovers above his groin. Chase makes a humming sound, as if he's thinking. His hand moves, the pen hovering over the crook beneath his right hip, just above his leg. He scrawls something, quickly, as if he's doing something forbidden; then his hand darts away.

Even if House had the sanity to map out what he'd written through touch alone, Chase's speed prevents him from the chance. It suddenly strikes him that it doesn't make him angry. That he doesn't feel exposed, violated; all the other unpleasant things that usually have him lashing out like a cornered animal whenever anyone gets too close to his bad leg. The most vulnerable part of him.

_Fucking Chase._

Then there's a soft clatter, and House realises Chase has tossed the pen to the floor. With some shuffling some deft movements, he settles back into the same spot he was in earlier, stradding House's calves. House quivers beneath his touch as Chase runs a hand over his abdomen, skimming his fingernails over the hard coat of the dried out wax; hears him moan quietly, lustful, desiring. Then that hot, expert mouth is sheathing his cock again, and House has to ball his hands into fists around the sheet beneath him to stop himself from bucking into Chase's mouth. He hears the rough whisper of friction, a muffled sigh; fuck, Chase is touching himself. And he can't see it.

_Seriously,__ fucking Chase_.

House loses himself in ecstasy, feeling his mouth tilt open wide; his head writhes against the pillow, his hips give restrained jerks with the battle not to push himself into Chase's throat. Chase's rhythm is perfect, the pressure of his lips, the agility of his tongue fucking maddening. He holds onto House's good thigh for balance as he fists his own cock, all the time bobbing, sucking, licking, moaning. His technique is somehow so refined, despite his passion, his fervour. Despite the way he savours House's cock as if it's a gift. House briefly wonders if he even realises how good he is at this. If he does, does he find House lacking?

_Interesting thought to be having right now._

Soon, any thought at all is shattered, obliterated, as Chase works him closer to the edge. His nerves are twisting in knots around each other, his blood hot and hummng in his veins. A hand idly claws at the pillow above his head, his muscles seizing up. “Please,” he gasps, through quivering lips, when he can't stand it anymore. “please, can I cum? Please...”

Chase is hardly capable of answering, but he gives House's thigh a squeeze, increasing his pace. He hopes that's permission, because he can't hold it in. He throws his head back on the pillow, a long, guttural cry wringing from his throat as release washes over his body. Cleansing him of all the bitching, the niggling, the agony, of the day. His heart pounds, his fists clench.

His mind is silent.

House trembles in the wake of the aftershocks, whimpering as Chase's lips slowly slide off of his cock. He's helpless to the ensuing blur, only vaguely aware of Chase shifting to kneel beside him. He lays still, dazed, floating; soon, he hears Chase's ragged, moaning sighs as he cums. The spurts, drops, of his release land on House's chest, adding to Chase's prior handiwork. Marking him.

“_All mine,” he'd said earlier._

“_All yours,” House has to stop himself from replying now._

There's a stretch of silence, broken only by panting breaths as they recover. Then there's a rustle, a crumple, as Chase removes his shirt and tosses that to the floor too. Chase always makes such a fucking mess when he comes over. That needs to change.

_Why? We aren't dating._

Chase lays down beside him. Realising he's still holding his arms above his head, House lowers them; rolls over, with some difficulty, to face him. Chase kisses his forehead, brushing his fingers through his hair, and House can feel the smile on his lips.

“Such a good boy,” he praises. “You did so well for me.”

Then House is smiling too, and the world seems to have fallen away.

He raises his head to assist Chase as he starts pulling at the knot holding the scarf over his eyes. When he blinks, furiously, at the intrusion of light, Chase intervenes, cupping his hands around his eyes. As House adjusts to life without a blindfold, he gingerly opens his lids. He's greeted with the sight of Chase looking flushed and spent and exhilarated. House doesn't want to find him so endearing, so beautiful. Wishes it didn't feel as though he and Chase are the only people in the universe.

“When you're ready,” Chase sounds excited, “look down at yourself.”

When House's eyes can function again, he does as he's told. The first, most glaring thing is the wax, patterns of reds and blues and yellows criss-crossing over his chest and stomach. His body has been treated as a canvas, and it's a little breathtaking to see himself made so beautiful. To admire Chase's handiwork, the skill and practise that must have gone into being able to do this. 

House's first urge is to snark. _Looks like something Jackson Pollock would make after a bottle of vodka,_ he wants to say, because it feels more comfortable than marvelling at what he's produced. But then his eyes begin to explore the areas uncovered with wax; Chase's cum staining a patch of skin just below his ribcage. Then, the black markings in between. In the rush of orgasm, the comfort of being held, he'd almost forgotten that Chase had written on him.

House sits up a little to take it in. He starts with his forearms, turning them over. On one, Chase has written, “_perfect_.” On the other, “_precious_.” The same sweet words, like nectar, like honey, that have been spilling from his lips. Something inside of him starts to swell.

On his abdomen, in big letters amongst a splash of yellow wax, he's written, “_good boy_.” In the gaps on his chest, below his nipples,House reads, _"Obedient." "Strong.” _

He bites his lip. He can handle this. He can. Then his eyes catch the marking below his hip, just above his bad leg. The word is proud above the scar tissue, the mottled bumps of pinks and whites and reds that still make him nauseous to look at. In capital letters, Chase has written, _BEAUTIFUL. _

The shaking starts in his hands, as he runs them over the black ink, slightly smudged now with sweat; then it spreads, engulfing his arms. Before he can fathom how to hide this, his entire body is trembling, jerking, like he's having a seizure.

_Wouldn't fucking surprise me._

Chase sits up too. “Are you okay?”

This time, House shrugs.

Chase's arms are around him in an instant, drawing House to his solid chest. His embrace is firm, insistent. “Ssh,” he murmurs. Not to quiet him this time, goad him into obedience, but to soothe. “It's okay. I've got you.”

House wants to protest. He wants to tell Chase to fuck off, to demand what the hell he thinks he's doing. Why Chase thinks he would ever need him to say “I've got you.” He doesn't need to be “got.” Not by Chase. Not by anyone.

But his body takes over, silencing him. It forces his hands against Chase's chest as he lays them both down against the mattress; Chase cups the back of his head, and he could dissolve in his arms. He kisses House's cheek, murmuring quiet “ssh”-es and reassurances that are barely audible to House, as he focuses on commanding his body to _stop fucking shaking; _but he knows that he's powerless to it. The urge to press himself into Chase, to slide his good thigh between his legs. His silent demands are not for touch and pleasure this time, but for closeness, comfort. _Comfort_; that simple human need he insists on depriving himself of. He tells himself that craving it is weak, that it's for pussies like Wilson. But deep down, House is never sure whether or not he deserves it. 

Chase clearly thinks he does. Chase holds him tightly enough to compress his ribcage, to stifle his anxious breaths. Chase kisses his face, his jaw, his cheeks, his forehead, lulling him with affection until House feels like he's slammed 20 milligrams of Valium. 

And those words, repeated over and over: “I've got you.”

Chase has always got him. He's got him whenever he comes over at the drop of a hat like this, always willing to subject House to whatever fuckery he's craving. He's got him when he doesn't bitch and whine like Foreman and Cameron do when House's leg is _wailing_ at him and he snaps, yells, because despite what the whole of New Jersey thinks of him, sometimes he just can't help it. Chase has got him, in never trying to insist that House be something that he's not.

Chase has been comfort all along.

And when House's judders subside, when his breathing returns to normal, and he's able to raise his head from Chase's shoulder, Chase presses a kiss to his lips and smiles. And because Chase gets him, he doesn't insist on a conversation about what the fuck just happened. 

“Shall I get you a drink?” he asks.

House shakes his head. Chase looks surprised, because House never turns down a drink after a scene. 

“Maybe we could go out for a drink instead,” he suggests. He keeps his tone as casual as he can, focussing on Chase's pretty, flushed face. “You know. Change of scenery.”

“Change of scenery?” Chase echoes, with a smile far too knowing for House's liking. “You mean, like a date?”

“Well...”

_Fuck._

But House is done fighting. He's exhausted.

“Don't make it awkward," he responds, lacing his fingers through Chase's again. Chase glances down at their locked hands, looking baffled, but he doesn't pull away. "No, not like a date. But not like, not a date either."

And then Chase beams. “Let's get you cleaned up first, yeah? You can't not go on a date looking like this.”

Chase readies himself to help him up, but House quickly bats him away when he realises his leg doesn't hurt at all.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the last fic in this series - my heart just ain't in the kink at the moment. Plus I did set myself a gargantuan task with this series that I just unfortunately haven't the time or energy for. Thanks so much to everyone who has kudo'ed and commented on what I did manage, it always makes my day a little brighter!


End file.
